


In-Bounds and Out

by gimmeshellder



Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [1]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Implied Pearl/Bismuth, Second Person Perspective, hella pearl headcanons... i should be more consistent w those..., like hella cuddling, more mama bear pearl references, pearl cuddling, typical pearl baggage applies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Each finger, thumb, palm, wrist, and knuckle on every pearl is identical in dimension, but you’ve never held another one before.
Relationships: Pearl/Pink Diamond's Pearl (Steven Universe)
Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699654
Comments: 29
Kudos: 157





	In-Bounds and Out

**Author's Note:**

> [ TheBlindBandit ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlindBandit/) and I were like "where the hell is all the pearl cuddling" and we rolled with it (thank you for perennial idea-jamming and commiseration)

Each finger, thumb, palm, wrist, and knuckle on every pearl is identical in dimension, but you’ve never held another one before. You’ve never spent much time with other pearls at all. Even before , and even at court with Pink, you never came close enough for more than a glance at their eyes as they watched the floor.

You never knew you could fuse with another. Never knew you could _fuse._

But Pearl: Pearl lets you hold her hand. She lets you twiddle your thumb against hers and curve your touch along the back, to dovetail the grooves between your fingers along hers. She lets you curl her hand into a fist. You try to make one, too, just to compare, and she tucks your thumb a little tighter beneath it before tracing the first two knuckles: “You punch with these.” 

Oh! Imagine! It racks you with nervous giggles and you bury your face in your hands until she coaxes you out from behind them, laughing too. She lets you trace her arms. Like yours. They’re the same but they seem so, so much stronger. When you fused, you could see it: all she’s done with them. All the fighting. All the reaching and snatching, tugging, crawling. No one should have to _pull_ so much.

“They aren’t any stronger than yours,” she says, when you study the fine muscles there. “Not how it matters.” 

You don’t really believe her. She lets you do that, too. 

She lets you wrap your arms around her and nestle your chin into her neck -- you even fall asleep there! And she _lets_ you! 

(“She’s kinda clingy, huh?” whispered when you’re half-in, half-out, “Been following you around like a puppy all week.”

“Hush, Amethyst.”)

It’s terribly embarrassing but Pearl says not to worry. She seems to tell you that often.

Even when her lover turns the corner with an armful of metalworking to find you both nestled together on the couch, with her jacket gone and you nuzzled next to her chin, examining the grain and strands of her hair. It’s… a bit intimate. 

“Pearl, lemme get your opinion on some of thiyeeee- _wow! Wow_ , whoa, uh, sorry to interrupt!” Her eyes are wide, gawping at you, then to Pearl, back to you, before she pitches her chin back to aim them at the ceiling instead. “I’ll just come back later?”

“Keep your gem in.” Pearl’s amused. You’re so close, her voice buzzes your cheek. “It’s not what you think.”

“‘Not what I think.’ Got it. So this is, some kinda…” Her hand rolls, lopsided, fishing for an idea.

“Pearls have nearly always been kept in complete isolation from one another.” Pearl says this as she pulls up your hand, and aligns it with hers: palm to palm. They’re the exact same size, down to the fingertip. “There’s some novelty to work through.”

“Gotcha. So… normal pearl stuff?” 

“It’s very _not_ normal,” Pearl corrects. She lets your fingers weave together, soft. A perfect fit. “That’s the point.” 

“Right. Just... pearls bein’ pearls.” Her mouth flattens. A little bead of sweat has formed at the end of one eyebrow, and when she glances back to you, her expression is like she has a mouthful of gravel.

You say, “You have a lovely blush,” because it’s true! Rainbow-colored, just like her hair.

If she _did_ have a mouthful of gravel, she looks to have swallowed it. “Yeah… thanks… made it myself...” She lowers half her armful of the metal to the floor, and immediately covers her face with her now freed hand. Then she makes for the door.

“Wait! Bismuth, you shouldn’t just --”

“ _I’ll get it later!_ ”

It’s… it’s engrossing. And wonderful. It’s never been like this before. You feel so calm with her, like so little needs to be said. It’s more than enough to be _close._

Could it have always been like this? You wonder. If you could have known any other pearl as more than a brushed elbow. Maybe. But maybe not. All you know is Pearl seems as warmed by the symmetry as you are, and she lets you as close as you like.

The only moment she hesitates is when you try to kiss her. You are curled together in a dry corner of her room, in the little quilt nest you’ve made for yourself, and you shape your fingers to her cheek and press closer against her form and you try to kiss her. She doesn’t push you away -- she only pulls back a whit -- but that’s enough to stop you.

“Oh,” so soft from her lips. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. 

“I’m sorry.” Too much. You asked too much. You begin to pull away.

“It’s alright. No, come back.” She pulls you closer again. Gentle, but sure. "Shhh... there, just like that." 

You’re certain her arms are stronger. 

The fountains chirr; they’re a perfect wall of sound. A barrier you can slink behind, held hard between you and your thoughts. Is that why Pearl likes them, too? Enough to have so many in _her_ space? (It’s _hers._ ) It’s calming. The sound. You focus on that.

You’ve just managed to force down your embarrassment when she begins to stroke your hair. The part, right down the middle, your sensitive scalp, the loose strands. The back of your neck. Just delicate, dusting touches. And that is when you begin to cry. You can’t help it. You can’t. You worry Pearl will think it’s because of her -- it’s not -- not really -- it’s simply too _much,_ all of it. All of it. And it has nowhere to go. It pushes its way up out of you in a steady pour, just like the fountains, and you cry.

She lets you. 

She doesn’t say anything. Just holding, hand careful against your hair. Your back. And you cry and cry and tuck your face into her neck where you’ve got her all sticky, and she lets you. She lets you hide against her. And when you’ve cried yourself warm and sleepy, she wraps her arms tight around you and breathes, deep. You try, too. Shaky. 

She reaches again for you -- your hair is coming loose and she means to smooth it -- just as you turn to look at her, and her fingers brush your eye. It makes her wince; but you reach up, too, and hold her touch there. 

You smile small. Shaky. “Here, too?” Too much. You hope it’s not too much.

You watch her swallow. The scar is smaller after fusion, yes. Far from gone. But then she traces you there, too. It’s strange. You feel none of it, but you can _hear_ the touch, hear the slight friction along your skin, the slight snag when she brushes along a crack. She touches you as though it should be sensitive and maybe it should be. When you lie back on her chest, you turn your chin aside so she can continue touching, and she shifts just so to give you room to play your thumb along the dip of her collar. You feel your own, too. Soft skin. The both of yours. 

It feels good. You never knew it could feel this good. But just _good_ doesn’t quite… it’s not good _enough,_ you feel so… 

You’ve felt secure before. But this is _safe._ She makes you feel safe. 

_Safe._

Does she feel that way with you, too? She sighs beneath you, relaxes, she lets you. But maybe she needs more. You listen to her breathe beneath your cheek and you wonder.

You’re very near falling asleep against her when she whispers, “Do you ever want to talk about her?”

You think about it. Yes, of course. No, never again. “Do you?”

She frowns. You can feel it. Hear, too. She answers, “... I suppose there’s no hurry.” 

The wrong question. That’s what it was: just slightly off. You’re so comfortable, you both are (she feels so warm, and lazy under you, cuddled into the quilt -- you never would have guessed you could keep each other warm), and time passes like that, just being held. You’ve been held before. Yes. But this… you don’t need to parse out why it’s different. 

You’ll need to let her go back to her routine eventually. She’s needed. Other people need her. You take a breath, and say, “You’re worried about him.” 

Her hand stops along your neck.

But: it picks up again.

“I… yes. I am. I worry.” She laughs, once. It’s an unripe sound. “I’m good at that.”

Always worried. You saw when you fused. What Pearl went through, losing her. What she went through adjusting. Feeling like a hole had been eaten through her gem. From scooping up a little squalling meatloaf of a thing from wandering off the stairs to certain death, to long nights watching, holding vigil, to purchasing a cookbook, a washing machine, learning to tie shoes, how to tell a story with pictures, how to bandage a scraped knee -- to such a ferociously bright, protective love that filled her with acidic joy when she took down any threat to his safety.

She let you see. She let you hear the question freshly formed in your mind when you became one: What would she do, when the threat was Steven himself?

She whispers, “I’m not sure how. To help him.”

You watch her throat bob. You swallow, too. “Are you afraid of him now?”

“No... never. No, but I’m afraid _for_ him. He…” Her touch slows on your back. “He seems to fall for many of the traps that she did. Hiding things. Not just from me, or the others, but from himself, too. And then…” She shakes her head. “I can't imagine what it could lead to. _Ha_ \-- I _can,_ actually.” 

Pink was much more gentle with Pearl, in certain ways. She never lost her temper. You saw. 

But that doesn’t mean she never hurt her. You saw what else she did, too.

Pearl sighs, and it’s deep -- like she dredged it up from underneath the floor. “I worry.”

You reach: not for her hand. You brush your fingertips over the corner of her lips and she looks at you like -- not quite wary, simply -- _‘oh,’_ again. But you only trace the place where she was held against her will. For so long. And the key to unlock her dead, gone. No hope of recovering from it, until she did just that.

There are no cracks for your fingertips to snag. But you touch her gently, too. “You can tell me,” you whisper. “I’ll listen.”

_Anything. Anytime._

“You will, won’t you.” She smiles. Her eyes shimmer and she pulls you, tucks you underneath her chin. She’s raw with fondness, sighing, “You’re such a darling…”

Eventually you need to let her go, to return to some more reasonable schedule. She can’t… carry you around all the time, as nice a picture as that makes. You know that she’s built a life here. Maybe you will, too. But for the moment you just let her hold you, and feel the both of you breathe.  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Bismuth: _I hope this doesn't awaken something in me_
> 
> (clapping, chanting) pearl crush pearl crush pearl crush PEARL CRUSH


End file.
